Chapter 7 - The Healing Garden
With the trial behind us, the long journey of psychological healing began.
I resigned from the high-stress trauma unit and took a position as an outpatient pediatric health coordinator—a role with stable day shifts that allowed me to be home every evening and weekend. I sold the Victorian house on Birch Street; neither Lumi nor I wanted to live in a place built on deception and fear.
Instead, I bought a sunlit, cozy three-bedroom cottage near the foothills of Mt. Hood. It had a wraparound porch, a big backyard filled with pine trees, and a spacious garden plot.
Through formal legal proceedings, I officially petitioned for full legal adoption of Lumi. Because she had no surviving living relatives who could offer a safe home, and given our profound bond and my role in rescuing her, the family court granted me full temporary guardianship while the adoption process was finalized.
In our new home, healing took time, patience, and love.
In the beginning, Lumi still showed remnants of her trauma. If a glass fell and broke, she would freeze and apologize dozens of times, terrified of punishment. If I raised my voice to call her from another room, she would jump.
"We don't punish accidents here, Lumi," I would remind her gently every single time, kneeling down to her eye level. "It’s just a broken glass. We clean it up together."
Together, we built a garden behind the cottage. We planted sunflowers, tomatoes, lavender, and sweet-smelling daisies. Lumi loved digging her small hands into the cool earth, planting seeds, and watching them sprout day by day.
"Why do plants grow so strong, David?" she asked me one sunny Saturday afternoon, her face speckled with dirt and a wide, genuine smile on her face.
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"Because they have good soil, plenty of sunshine, and someone who loves them enough to water them every day," I answered, wiping a smudge of dirt from her nose.
She giggled—a bright, ringing sound with zero fear behind it.
